The Because Series
by BethTX
Summary: A few short vignettes because sometimes...just because. Some humor, some angst. HouseWilson, but nothing explicit.
1. Chapter 1

_**Because someone has to take Cuddy down a peg...**_

"Do you do these things to annoy me or just because you're a jerk?" Cuddy gripped her head as she stalked through the corridors of Princeton-Plainsboro. Her frustration was evident in the frantic clickclickclick of her designer heels. The eternal reason for her frustration limped beside her.

House stopped to consider. "Let's see...both? Either, depending on my mood?" He leaned against the nearest wall. "This is a conundrum, Dr. Cuddy, that I feel I could best ponder in the comfort of my office where, incidentally, I should be diagnosing my patient."

She tugged his arm and propelled him into the Pediatrics wing. "You recklessly accuse a hospital benefactress of poisoning her Down's Syndrome son. No proof but your colossal ego-"

House frowned comically. "Is 'ego' a code word for penis? Because if so, Wilson's been talking about me again."

"House, goddammit-"

"Step-son, incidentally," he said mildly. "Widowed husband dragged a retarded kid into his new marriage then had the bad manners to die, leaving his new wife saddled with this kid. Kid shows signs of heavy metal poisoning. Easy way for Mommy to get rid of a burden, don't you think? I put two and two together. Sorry, it's a doctor thing."

Cuddy stopped and spun to face him. "Right, so you thought you'd grab the step-mother's purse and search it, barking accusations in front of everyone in earshot?"

House rolled his eyes. "Nobody was in earshot. Unless you count Chase, Foreman, and Cameron." He paused. "Oh, and the nursing staff. And maybe Dr. Wayne, but what she was doing hanging around pediatrics-"

"She's a pediatrician., which entitles her to hang around Pediatrics."

"And I'm a diagnostician, which entitles me to hang around the Diagnostics department, but it doesn't look like my mean old Auntie Lisa's gonna let me."

"Auntie Lisa" gritted her teeth. "House, here's what's going to happen: you are going to apologize to Mrs. Campbell for violating her rights as a human being and then you're going to do an extra two hours of clinic duty."

She pushed him into the first room on the right. A small child lay in the bed. His pale, still face bore the distinctive stamp of Down's Syndrome. In the visitor's chair was a middle-aged woman stroking his hand, pale herself from too many nights sitting in sleepless vigil be her child's side.

"Mrs. Campbell?" Cuddy pasted her professional smile to her face as they entered the room. "I'm Dr. Cuddy, Dean of Medicine here. Dr. House has something he'd like to say to you."

House sighed. Here it comes, he thought, the apology, the misplaced anger from Mommy Dearest-second verse, same as the first. He leaned on his cane and sighed. "I might have been out of line this morning."

Cuddy glared at him. "What Dr. House means is that he's sorry for the incident this morning."

The woman in the chair turned glassy eyes to them. "Excuse me, sorry for what? It was a good thought and something he had to rule out. He was doing his job." She smiled tiredly at House.

Cuddy's mouth fell open. "Well, that's kind of you to say, but-"

"What I don't understand is why you're wasting his time dragging him down here for bullshit apologies when he should be trying to find out what's wrong with Brandon." She leveled a finger at Cuddy. "You've covered your ass, now why don't you go back to pushing your papers and let Dr. House save my son?" Mrs. Campbell turned back to the hospital bed and her silent vigil, taking her son's hand once again.

House smiled angelically at the speechless Cuddy and clasped Mrs. Campbell's shoulder. "Mrs. Campbell-Bonnie-I couldn't agree more," he said expansively. "I'm going to find out what's wrong and we'll fix Brandon up."

She turned her face up in a grateful smile and patted the hand on her shoulder.

Cuddy gave the other woman's back a frozen PR smile, spun, and left the room, House on her heels.

"Uh oh," he said conversationally. "Auntie Lisa can't be mean to me anymore or my new friend will bite."


	2. Chapter 2

1**_Because sometimes there's only one person left to stand by you..._**

It hadn't been House's idea to attend the chaplain's seminar on Care of the Terminal Patient, especially on a Friday night, and Wilson had had to bribe him with the promise of a steak and lobster dinner to get him to attend.

"Well, thanks for another great date, Jimmy," House bitched as they made their way back to their seats after break. "An hour of weepy Oprah bullshit. Here's an update for everyone: we work at a hospital. Patients die."

Several teary-eyed attendees glared in his direction and Wilson ducked his head. "True, but some of us actually care." He knew this wasn't going to be House's cup of tea and knew he was going to make it difficult, but the truth was, he hadn't wanted to attend alone. He was counting on House's abrasive personality to dampen the draining effects these seminars had on him.

"Yeah, yeah, James Wilson: Patron Saint of the Oncology Ward," House waved dismissively. "The fact is, you can't do your job if you pull a Cameron, weeping and tearing your hair every time you lose one."

Wilson frowned. "Are you saying I don't do my job?"

House softened a bit. "You're damn good at what you do," he amended. "It's just that you tend to lose objectivity, that's all."

Wilson opened his mouth to reply when the chaplain came back in and took the podium. "Okay, I'm going to dim the lights for the last part of our seminar." She lowered the lights and went to each table, handing out index cards. "I'd like each of you to take three cards. Write the names of the three people who matter most to you."

House leaned over. "How do you spell Carmen Elektra?" he whispered.

Wilson shushed him. On his cards he wrote "mom and dad", "David", and "Greg". He glanced over to see what House was writing, but the man was turned at an awkward angle.

"You've just received the most devastating news." The chaplain's soft voice continued. "You have terminal cancer. It's invaded your lungs and liver and there's no treatment. You have six months to live." She paused. "Your life has just changed forever. Everyone on those index cards cares about you, but not everyone can handle a terminal diagnosis in a person he or she cares about. Fold up the name of the person who leaves you first."

"Oh, Carmen, why are you so fickle?" House muttered, folding one card mournfully.

Troubled, Wilson ignored him. His parents, his brother, Greg. None of them would desert him and to fold one card would mean giving up on that person. Greg would still be around, his parents would still be around, but Davey? As the most sensitive one in the family, he had never attended a funeral and had even refused to bury the family pets. He loved Jimmy dearly, but wouldn't be able to handle watching him die.

With a heavy heart, Wilson folded the card marked "David".

"It's been three months," the chaplain went on quietly. "You only have three months to live. The cancer continues to spread throughout your body and pain medicine doesn't always work You're exhausted, you're in pain, and you sometimes take it out on those around you."

Soft sniffles and stifled sobs came from around the room. Wilson felt his own breathing become labored. How many times had he followed this path with his terminal patients? He knew the helplessness and frustration of watching someone die, knowing he could do nothing more but lend support.

"You're growing weaker by the day," the chaplain said. "Some days you're unable to leave your bed or care for yourself. The people on your cards have to shoulder a heavy burden and it's not always physically or emotionally possible for one of them. Fold that one."

House sighed. "Angelina, Angelina, why hast thou forsaken me after I sat through Tomb Raider twice?" He crumpled a card and tossed it.

Hot tears welled up in Wilson's eyes and he fought to hold them back. Mom and Dad or House? All three loved him unconditionally, but Mom and Dad were in their 70's, unable to do any of the necessary care of their dying son. They were loving and much loved, but they wouldn't be able to deal emotionally or physically with him.

Throat aching from unshed tears, Wilson folded the card marked "Mom and Dad". It was almost physical pain, tantamount to saying that his parents would desert him. He knew that wouldn't be the case, that they loved him more than life itself, but-

"Time's gone on." The chaplain said gently. "You now have a few weeks, maybe a few days. You can't move, you can't care for yourself, you can barely speak. Someone has to bathe you, feed you on the rare occasions you can eat, change your bed."

Some of the class was sobbing openly now. Wilson could no longer hold back the tears that leaked from the corner of his eyes; he wiped them away with his sleeve.

"Your time is almost up now," the chaplain said. "You'll be gone soon, and there's one person left, one person who stayed by your side through everything. One person who never left you, no matter how hard it was to watch what was happening." She roamed from table to table, laying her hands on shoulders, giving comfort. "Look at your last card."

Greg.

Vision blurred, Wilson could barely read the card, but he didn't need to. He had always known who his rock was.

"This is your strength, your faith, your courage. If there's a name written on it, you know you always have someone to stand by you. Silently, sometimes, but there nonetheless. Go home tonight and thank God, fate, nature, or whatever you believe in that you have this person in your life because they are a true gift." She turned up the lights. "Thank you for attending. If any of you would like to talk, please feel free to see me."

House groaned dramatically. "Ah, Beyonce, I knew your heart was true." He stuffed the unfolded card into his pocket and stood up.

Wilson followed, stung. "So you didn't get anything out of this at all?"

House nodded. "Yeah, an expensive dinner, some drinks, and maybe a few hickeys if I treat you right. Blow your nose, dry those baby browns, and let's go."

Unbelievable. Wilson loved the man, but his inability to break through, to force House to take something seriously, to _feel something_, for God's sake, was sometimes too much.

"Pit stop," House announced, detouring into the men's room. Wanting to wash his face, Wilson started to follow him when something fell out of his pocket. House's final index card. Wilson scooped it up and headed for the trash when the printing caught his eye.

Jimmy.

The oncologist stopped, staring mutely at his name, written in House's well-known blocky scrawl. He ran his finger over the card, tracing the lettering, absorbing what it meant.

"Did you doubt it?"

Wilson came back to himself and looked up at the other man, his friend of twelve years, his lover of five.

"I...didn't think you were taking it seriously, that's all." Wilson swallowed to keep back fresh tears.

Greg regarded him with uncharacteristic gentleness in his blue eyes. "You've already been with me through a time when I wanted to die." He tapped his mangled thigh and put an arm around his mate's shoulders. " I figured you'll be there if I ever have no choice in the matter."

Unable to speak, Wilson put the card with his name on it in his pocket and handed House his own final card.

House glanced at it and tucked it into his pocket. "You know it," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

1**_Because sometimes you have to make the hard decisions for love's sake..._**

"So Cameron really did it." Wilson kicked off his shoes and collapsed on the couch in House's office.

House sat beside him and stretched out his long legs. "Yep. My overly-moral duckling is starting to see the world as something less than black and white. She actually euthanized a patient tonight." He smiled, a short-lived expression that would have been missed by anyone but the man sitting beside him. "Chase was all for it, Foreman was against it for legal reasons, and Cameron..." he gestured. "...is just Cameron."

Wilson looked over at him. "So how many times have you done it?"

House's lips quirked up in another microexpression. "Let's just say I'm not a virgin. You?"

"No. Never." Wilson slouched back tiredly.

House sat up, suddenly interested. "Wilson, you're an oncologist. Your patients die by the truckload-"

"Gee, thanks. Glad your opinion of my medical skills is so high."

"-from one of the most painful, humiliating diseases known to man and you've never even helped one along a little? Why not?" House leaned forward on his cane and peered at his friend intently.

"I manage my patients' pain very well," Wilson replied. "I would never spare the morphine for a dying patient just because guidelines say so. You know that." He was exhausted from a long, stressful day and the topic was not what he needed. He was hoping for a hot dinner, a backrub, and whatever activities might follow in their bedroom. He could tell from the look on House's face that he wouldn't get out of the discussion so easily.

House nodded. "You're an excellent doctor, but that's not what I asked. I asked why you've never euthanized a patient."

Wilson shifted on the couch. "I don't know. I mean, it's a topic that comes up eventually, isn't it? It's just that I don't think it's right. We're supposed to preserve life."

"At all costs?"

Wilson rubbed his hands across his face, scratching at his burning eyes. "I'm not saying that. I know when to give up, when to give a patient the news that we can't do anymore, but to actively take a life, even with the patient's permission..." he thought for a moment. "No, I don't think it's right and I'd never do it."

House approached the questions as he would any puzzle: directly and aggressively. That quality made him a brilliant diagnostician, but also cost him personally. It intimidated people and made them feel cornered. Wilson had been close to the man far too long to be put off, but he was also not in the mood to be a puzzle tonight, to be the object of curiosity. "House-" he started, warning him off.

"You're backing away from the question, Jimmy." House persisted. "What if the patient begged for it? Terminal, all dignity gone, pain unmanageable?"

"God, House, do you have to know everything?" he snapped. "Why are you interrogating me? Can't you just accept my beliefs and leave it at that for tonight?" He got up, slipped his shoes on, and started toward the door. "I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I just want to go home."

"What if it were me?"

The quiet voice, devoid of all the normal sarcasm and biting edge, stopped Wilson cold. He turned back. "What?" He felt his heart freeze in his chest. "Greg, are you trying to tell me something's wrong with you?" _Please, not you, not ever._

House shook his head. "No, but it does put it in a different light, doesn't it?"

There was no mocking in the question. Wilson could have met mocking with sarcasm of his own, maybe stood a chance of ending this conversation before it went places he wasn't willing to follow.

"You're my primary physician and my medical proxy," House persisted in the same gentle tone. "You're also my lover. That complicates things for you."

Wilson moved away from him, over to the window, somehow hoping that physical space would equal mental space. Instead, he felt the weight of the question follow him across the room. "You're not even sick, not so much as a cold, so can we drop this? Please? You're fine!" he snapped.

He heard the creak of the old couch as House shifted his weight. "I am now," he said softly.

Wilson suddenly realized the reason for the conversation. House was ten years older, an alcoholic and drug addict in nearly constant pain. There had always been the unspoken understanding that he would die early, possibly decades before his younger lover. Renal failure, heart failure, liver failure. One way or another, House would go first and Wilson would find himself alone, facing the decision in real life he was being asked to make now. The realization flooded him with grief and loss not yet experienced. He leaned against the window, seeking cold comfort in the glass.

As a doctor, Wilson knew death. As an oncologist, he was almost intimate with it. Death itself could be a blessed relief to a patient who had fought long and hard and had been rewarded with nothing but suffering, but dying-there was nothing blessed about the process. It was ugly and hateful, robbing a person of everything that made him human, adult, alive.

_Terminal. All dignity gone. Pain unmanageable._ These were the things that frightened the almost fearless Greg House. To have no more control over his life. To lose that odd, aloof dignity with which he carried himself. To suffer unmentionably with no hope of release.

Unbidden, the weeks after House's infarction sprung into Wilson's mind. How he had lain helpless in bed, unable and unwilling to bathe or feed himself without Wilson's help, hating it but needing it. Lips bitten bloody in an effort to choke back the screams when Vicodin wasn't working. All through it, Wilson had stayed by his side, holding his clenched hand and reassuring him that it would all be better, whispering that the pain would fade soon.

What if he hadn't even had those feeble murmurs to soothe? No hope. No confidence. Just a long, dragged-out end.

Wilson took a deep, ragged breath and turned away from the window. "I would take care of you again, you know. For as long as it took."

"I know." Quiet, unusually patient. Waiting.

Wilson fought past the choking sensation, fought to get out the words House needed to hear, that maybe he himself needed to say. "And if there's no hope, if it ever becomes too much for you-" "The answer is yes," he whispered. "I would help you end your life." His breathing hitched. "But I would miss you for the rest of mine."

Silently, House crossed the room and took Wilson in his arms. Wilson placed his hand over House's chest, needing to feel the strong heartbeat under warm skin.

_Please, not you, not ever._


	4. Chapter 4

1_NOTE: This latest part is a definite M with good old explicit H/W sex with a large side order of Chase. The last two chapters got a little mushy and somehow Wilson got a little weepy on me. Sorry 'bout that. His idea, not mine. But here's some nice hot sex to make up for it.Besides, it's about time Chase gets some props!_

_**Because you should really check for wandering ducklings before having sex in your office...**_

Chase slumped back in House's chair and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He'd been researching his paper for almost three hours and he wasn't even halfway finished.

_Bloody stupid time for my home computer to go wonky on me, _he thought. Here he was, stuck in House's office at almost eight o'clock at night, but at least the hospital was quiet. Most of the staff was gone for the night****leaving Chase to pound away at what he hoped would be a halfway decent and publishable paper on ethical issues in intensive care. Working with the likes of Greg House for the past three years had left him a plethora of ethical issues to write about: when to violate a DNR order, busting a cap in a corpse, accusing a patient to his face of lying.

_How about ethical treatment of co-workers? _he thought wryly. _I could definitely do a few hundred pages on House's violations of that. Might be an idea. Maybe me, Cameron, and Foreman could form the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Underlings. Lobby worldwide. Make sure House isn't inflicted on anyone else._

Amusing thought, but it wasn't getting his paper done. Chase stood and stretched, wincing at the pinched feeling of sore back muscles and tingling feeling of a bum squashed into a chair too long. A gnawing sensation in his middle reminded him that lunch had been seven long hours ago. He briefly considered pilfering the Oreos that House kept in his desk drawer, more for entertainment value than actual nutrition. When House discovered them missing he would blame Foreman purely for the hell of it. Chase grinned to himself, hearing his boss' snarky, _First grand theft auto, then snack foods. It was bound to escalate sooner or later._

_One more hour and I'll call it a night. Pick up some Thai takeaway and a six-pack, check out what's on pay-per-view, and then bed. Alone. _He sighed. Bed alone had been happening too frequently lately. If he ever got a few days off he definitely intended to do something about that. All he could do for the moment, however, was take in some night air to revive him and plug away for the hour he'd promised himself.

Chase flung open the double door and stepped out onto the balcony. The New Jersey night was crisp and the night cloudless; he took a deep breath and felt life flood back into his body. A few moments of deep breathing and he felt enough energy come back to allow maybe an hour's more work.

_Make it half an hour, _he thought expansively. _Skive off a bit early tonight and make up the difference tomorrow_. _I could even-_

A soft groan sounded from somewhere in the still night. Thoughts of home, food, and sex fled as Chase's medical training kicked in. The groan came again.

Wilson's office, directly to the left of him. He hadn't noticed the door to the oncologist's office before, but now he realized it was open and the pained sound was coming from within. Chase quickly jumped the low wall between House's office and Wilson's, heading for the open door as a series of harsh gasps reached him.

Chase hurried to the door and stuck his head in, already running through emergency medical procedures for various accidents and illnesses. Chase knew that many colleagues were at first tempted to dismiss him as a pretty boy who had glided through med school under the aegis of the rich and formidable Dr. Rowan Chase, but the misguided quickly found that the younger Dr. Chase had a sharp mind lurking behind big blue eyes and the sheet of choirboy-blonde hair. Fast and decisive in a crisis, he often left the doubting colleagues in the dust with the speed and accuracy of his treatments.

_And If something's happened to Dr. Wilson I'd fucking well **better** do everything right or House will have me._

"Dr. Wilson, are you okay?" dried up in his throat, along with all saliva.

Wilson was lying on his couch, naked, eyes closed, head thrown back. Kneeling beside him was House himself, mouth attached to his lover's left nipple, hands rubbing slow circles on the oncologist's quivering belly.

"Oh God, Greg, yes," Wilson whispered hoarsely, arching into the touch.

Chase's sharp mind had blown a tie rod. _Greg??? Since when does Wilson call House by his first name?_ In his shock, this piece of minutiae was the only thing he could comprehend, so he seized on it. _Even when he was shot and bleeding everywhere Wilson called him House. Everyone calls him House. They-Jesus Christ, they're having it off right here in front of me! _

House chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that Chase would never have thought him capable of. "I'm not God, Jimmy, but you'll think I am in a minute." Slowly, gently, he moved lower, planting his hands between Wilson's thighs and his lips to Wilson's abdomen. House's mouth danced across the slick skin, exploring, tasting.

Chase's breath caught in his throat and his heart pounded in his chest. _Go! _he ordered, panicked. _Get out before they see you! _His mind screamed for him to escape, but his body didn't want to obey.

House and Wilson-everyone knew about them, or thought they knew. Best friends, always together, more important to each other than the women they dated. Or married. House's single-minded campaign to separate Wilson from any woman who came close to him was a legendary topic of gossip around the hospital, as was Wilson's persistent devotion in spite of House's miserable mood changes and abrasive personality. Chase himself had made many a speculative comment to his co-workers, but this-

Chase swallowed convulsively, frozen in place, as Wilson twined his hands in House's hair, tugging restlessly. "Shit, Greg, do something!" he begged. "You're driving me crazy."

House lifted his head and grinned. "No one does that better." He rubbed circles on Wilson's legs, avoiding the bulge between them. Wilson hissed and arched his hips. House gave another low chuckle. "No one does _you _better, do they?" He dipped down to lick Wilson's belly button.

"No, God no!" came the fevered reply. "You're the best. Please."

House moved down, kissing Wilson's right hipbone. "I'm the best, but am I the only one, Jimmy?"

"You know you are." Soft, pleading.

Chase's breath hitched and suddenly his jeans seemed too tight. A throbbing started somewhere in his lower belly and spread downward. _I'm not enjoying this! _The bulge in his jeans said otherwise. _Fuck, I'm turned on by watching House do Wilson! What the hell is wrong with me?_

He'd always recognized, along with everyone else, that Wilson was attractive, not to mention one of the only people Chase had ever met who was honestly as dedicated and compassionateas he seemed. Patients loved him, co-workers loved him, and the man who held everyone else in the world in contempt loved him most of all.

House, on the other hand...the man was handsome, no denying that, but his toxic personality and cutting tongue always knocked Chase off balance. Once or twice Chase had thought about reaching out to House, trying to get close, but the diagnostician's fierce displays of his lightning intellect always scared him off in the end. The younger doctor was afraid of being judged and deemed unworthy of his attention.

What had brought these two opposite forces together? More important, what kept them together? Silently, mesmerized by both the question and the scene as they related to each other, Chase dared moved a step closer, angling for a better view, still half-hidden by the wall.

"Now, Greg! God, now, please!" Wilson's voice was soft and strangled, choked with heat and desire.

House abandoned all pretense of teasing and took the young doctor in his mouth. Wilson's hands left his hair and clutched the sides of the couch instead, opening and closing convulsively in rhythm with House's smooth, practiced movements.

Chase's breathing came faster, in synch with Wilson's harsh panting. He watched as Wilson muttered incoherently, then cried out sharply and arched his back. He slumped onto the couch and lay there limp and sated.

Chase turned to make a silent retreat when Wilson's voice stopped him.

"Why do you always ask me that?" Wilson's soft voice, still slightly out of breath. "You know you're the only one. You know that."

House looked up into his lover's eyes and said nothing.

"Come here." Wilson sat up and tugged at House's hair, pulling the older man's head against his chest. They sat like that, quiet and content, while Chase studied them. The moonlight from the cloudless night streamed in the window and he could see them clearly. If either opened his eyes he'd be able to see Chase as well, but Chase took an extra moment to study them.

Wilson had a small smile on his face as he stroked the silver-streaked hair of the man he held to his chest. He looked sleepy and content. And House...Chase struggled to think of what it was, and then realized that this was House without the ever-present defenses with which he punished the rest of the world. Everyone in the world but the man holding him. Relaxed, without pain, without barriers, House looked ten years younger and-

-happy. Chase realized that only Wilson had seen House like this in years, maybe ever.

_God, they're beautiful together_! The thought came and Chase smiled, suddenly understanding that this was the answer to his earlier question.

He moved away from the door and slipped back into House's office, unseen. He thought he'd long ago buried the feelings that had surfaced tonight. After he'd had to leave seminary school he thought he'd left the reason for fleeing behind him. Now, thinking about what Wilson and House had together, he wondered if it was time to stop running.


End file.
